Anger radiated from him, and the sensation was red fucking hot. He leaned down over her. The edge of his open zipper against her ass where her skirt rode up was rough and biting.
“In about ten seconds I’m going to let you up. You are going to walk out of here, go to the apartment, pack your crap, and get the fuck out. I don’t want to see you. Hear you. Feel you.”
“Bastian, please…” She tried to wiggle free, but the sharp upward tug on her arms stopped her. Pain speared through her shoulders, and she sucked in a breath.
“Fuck you, Morgan,” he hissed. The venom in his voice tore her apart. “I’m done. I spent eighty fucking years at the mercy of Ronan. I won’t do it again for some piece of ass, no matter how good of a fuck you are. Get out.”
His words stung. Worse than stung, it tore out her heart and shattered it into a million pieces.
All at once, the presence at her back vanished. She turned around with tears rolling down her cheeks. A sob tore free. “Bastian, I know you’re pissed, but just listen to me.”
“He said to get the fuck out.” Nolan pressed the barrel of his gun to her temple.
Right. Bastian took one last look at her. His eyes were hard, glittering diamonds of loathing, an expression she’d seen when he was gazing at his father. He fucking hated her. She knew it was over right at that moment. When he turned his back and let his brother herd her out of the office at gunpoint, it solidified the rejection.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rage rose from the depths of Bastian’s soul and consumed him. He couldn’t breathe through the red-hot burn emanating from his chest. Being enslaved brought every repressed memory to the surface, and he couldn’t control the festering emotions.
Pain. Anger. Despair. His snarl echoed through the room as he picked up the closest object within his reach—a rolling desk chair. He gripped the back, fingers sinking into leather, spun and swung the seat against the wall like it was a bat. Drywall caved and cracked. Plastic wheels flew.
Helpless and weak—those feelings were synonymous with love. Once upon a time, he’d loved his father. As a boy, he hadn’t understood Ronan’s sick perversions, had only craved attention and praise. That crap had gotten him fucked then, and it had fucked him now. Giving your heart to someone made you vulnerable.
The small ruin wasn’t enough. He brought the remnants of the chair down on the desk until wood cracked and the flat-screen monitor was nothing but rubble. Blinded by fury, he didn’t look at what he destroyed next. He ripped things from walls. Smash. Ronan’s laughter echoed in his head. Punch. Panicked, tear-stricken faces of the women he’d hurt overlaid the image of his father’s sickeningly cruel smile. Kick.
The memory took root. Knives sank into his flesh, opened, cut, peeled until there was nothing. His very soul was torn open and exposed, destroyed until the only thing left was muscle and bone. Nothing human.
Bastian pressed slick, bloody hands against his temples and collapsed to the floor amid the broken glass and debris. One by one, he relived the worst moments of his life under the thrall of his father.
He’d known somewhere deep inside that Morgan would do this to him, that she’d break his heart. At the time, the benefits outweighed the risks. Now, with pain exploding out like a burst abscess, he realized love wasn’t worth shit.
Nothing on this earth could be worth this…agony.
“She’s gone,” Nolan told him.
Bastian looked up through blurry eyes and focused on his brother crouched in front of him. Slowly, as if touching an injured animal, Nolan pressed a hand to Bastian’s shoulder and squeezed.
Bastian flinched at the contact, his skin raw from memories.
Nolan drew back with pained eyes. “We’ll get through this, and you won’t have to see her again.”
Her. Morgan. Gone. The pain redoubled as Bastian recalled the horrified look on her face, the way she’d tucked his cock back into his pants and leaned her forehead against his pounding chest. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Had tried to apologize, and he wouldn’t listen. Bastian grabbed the sides of his head and squeezed.
Voice raw, he croaked, “She didn’t mean to do it.”
Nolan nodded. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the fact that she did it. This was bound to happen.”
Bastian shoved his hand through his hair, and then pulled. The sting didn’t help clear his head. “What do I do?”
“You let her go. If you love her, just let her be. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but this is for the best. Look around you, Bastian.” Nolan swept his hand around the room. “You want her caught in the middle of one of your rages the next time she accidently does something? Rory told me about the fight you guys had a couple of weeks ago, just before you gave her the necklace.”
His brother’s words drilled straight into his heart. He met Nolan’s gaze and told him the truth. “I’d never hurt her.”
“Not on purpose. Every day I live with the guilt of what happened with Mari and our son Haven. My wife died because of me. My child died”—Nolan swallowed—“because of me. I loved her without reason, and because of it I was weak. The loss of them is a void that’ll never be filled. The pain is fresh, like it happened yesterday, not a century ago. Love is toxic, Bastian. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
The hazy image of Nolan’s son surfaced. Big blue eyes, soft blond curls, and a round, pudgy face. The picture changed. The rosy flush of youth vanished; in its place he saw glazed white eyes, pale skin, and blue lips.
He cupped the back of Nolan’s neck and leaned into his brother to bring them forehead to forehead. “Ronan did that, Nolan. Not you.”
Nolan pulled away. “Ronan might have given the order, but it was my hand that executed the kill. I wasn’t strong enough to fight him, and my family paid the price. The people we love aren’t safe around us.”
“What if I can’t let Morgan go?” he asked.
“She let you go.”
Bastian shook his head. “What?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I offered her two hundred and fifty grand.” Nolan’s gaze slanted to the side, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “It was all there, a passport, a new identity, and a first-class ticket to France so she could make her own path in the world. She had the choice to fight for you or take the money.” His brother looked up, drew in a breath. Nolan met his gaze for only a moment. “She took the money.”
“She wouldn’t—”
“I’m sorry, Brother, but she did. She didn’t pack anything, just walked out the door with the clothes on her back.” Nolan reached into his pocket and withdrew something gold and delicate.
The chisel in Bastian’s chest pushed deeper, cranked, split the organ open. Love fucking sucked.
Nolan opened his hand to reveal the raven necklace he’d given her. “Morgan asked that I give this back to you, said it belonged to you.”
Bastian held out his hand for the jewelry, and Nolan slid it into his palm. She’d left him. He’d told her to go, and she had gone. He closed his fist over the raven, welcomed the sting of the wings cutting into his skin.
“What the fuck happened in here?” Rory asked from the open door.
Bastian glanced at his brother as he walked into the office, and couldn’t find the words to tell him what had happened.
“Morgan,” Nolan answered for him.
Panic brought his brother’s pale yellow magic to life, and he sprinted into the room, started parting debris as if he’d find her body among the mess. “Is she okay? Was it Ronan? Where is she?”
Bastian rose from the ground, his world spinning. His gut clenched, but he forced himself to stand straight and tall. He met his youngest brother’s eyes, shoved the broken shards of his heart into a jagged ball. “It wasn’t Ronan, but she’s gone, Rory. Morgan isn’t coming back.”
“Gone? What? How?” Rory glanced around the room. Anger colored his cheeks. “What the fuck did you do this time?”
Bastian shook hi
s head, couldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t think about it. “From this moment on, we don’t talk about her. It’s over.” He looked to Nolan and back to Rory. “Get your crap packed up. It’s time for us to move on.”
“But, Ronan—”
“But nothing. We move on. Either you stay or you come with us.” Bastian shoved past Rory and went straight for the bar. He picked out a bottle of liquor with each hand before making his way upstairs, where he planned to get as drunk as possible to numb the pain of Morgan’s abandoning him.
* * * *
Morgan shifted from one foot to the other and pulled her cheap, threadbare jacket tighter around her. Winter stormed in with the fury of a scorned lover. How fitting, she thought. The temperature dropped to below freezing, and ice had practically shut down the entire city, including Haven, it appeared.
She blew out a cloud of breath and pressed her nose to the glass door. The slick surface fogged over, hiding the reflection of the dark shadows under her red-rimmed eyes. Seventy-two hours of nonstop sobbing did that to a person. She wiped her nose and steeled her nerves. She could do this. Needed to do this. If Bastian still didn’t want to listen to what she had to say, then fine. It would hurt, but she’d go.
Despite the CLOSED sign, she tried the door and found it locked. Haven was always open, always. Through the frosted-glass door, she spotted chairs on top of tables and open boxes littering the bar. A tall figure moved back and forth behind the counter and looked to be…packing?
Pain engulfed her, and something in her chest squeezed tight. Were they moving? She’d given Bastian three days to cool off. What would have happened if she’d waited four?
She knocked on the door and shoved her nearly frozen fingers into her secondhand jeans. With only a hundred dollars to her name, she’d had to be smart with her money. The shadowed figure inside cleared as he approached the door.
Nolan. Wonderful. Hopefully he didn’t have his weapon on him.
“Thought I told you not to come back,” he said as he opened the door.
A blast of heat hit her and stung her cheeks. “Is Bastian here?”
“He’s busy.”
“Look, I know things didn’t end well—with you pointing the gun at my head and all—but I need to talk to him.”
Nolan stared at her with a bored, neutral expression as if he needed a blank slate to hide how he really felt. He hadn’t liked her from the beginning. Why would anything have changed? She drew in a breath and pushed on.
“Don’t be a jerk, Nolan. Let me in. He needs to know I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Fuck off.” He stepped back from the entrance, and when he went to shut it in her face, she wedged her foot in the door.
Anger thawed her. “Five minutes, and if he tells me to go again, I’ll go.”
“I don’t think you understand.” Nolan sneered and leaned against the doorjamb. If he felt the frost licking over his bared arms, he didn’t let on. Smug satisfaction filled his gaze. “He’s going to be a lot longer than five minutes. I’m not sure what you think you two had, but he didn’t waste any time in moving on. He’s got two groupies in his apartment, so unless you want to make their threesome an orgy, I suggest you leave. I got more packing to do.”
Knife. Gut. She stumbled back as if Nolan had punched her. Her eyes stung and her nose tingled. “Wh-at?”
“You heard me. You were just one among many, sweetheart—you didn’t even last as long as Jodi. I tried to tell you love was toxic, but you didn’t listen. Your fault, not mine.”
She retreated, one step and then another. Everything had been a lie. Every moment with Bastian, every look, every caress. She’d meant nothing to him. Stupid. She was a moron to trust these men, to trust anyone. The fragile shards of her heart, already smashed from Bastian’s cruelty a few days ago, pulverized into ash, and she was choking on the dust.
Maybe she’d die of asphyxiation.
Tears gathered in her eyes, and she struggled to hold them back. No way would she give him, any of them, the pleasure. Nolan never looked away, just stared at her as if she was the scum on the bottom of his shoe. Worse than scum. She was shit he’d stepped in and had to scrape off.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
She stepped off the curb, turned, and didn’t bother to look back. A hot tear rolled down her cheek. She pushed it—and the rest of them—away with trembling hands.
* * * *
Christmas passed with her sitting by herself in a run-down hotel she’d barely had enough money for. Thanksgiving had been worse. She’d spent that day huddled in her ratty, secondhand coat at the bus station. The tears had long ago dried up. In their place was a cold, burning anger.
There hadn’t been any sign of Ronan since she’d left town six weeks ago, but she knew from experience that no news wasn’t good news, especially not where he was concerned. Two weeks was her limit in any given city. She worked her ass off, saved all the money she could, and moved on.
Morgan stepped up to the old, fifties-style table and drew out her order pad. She rubbed the small of her back and exhaled. She was exhausted, cold, and despite all her righteous anger, heartbroken. The world tilted. Her vision narrowed into an ever-shrinking black tunnel. Dim. Dimmer. Dimmest. Black. Beads of sweat popped to the surface and ran between her breasts. She swayed and gripped the table to keep from falling back.
“Morgan!” Lexie, a fellow waitress, yelled and ran across the dinner to catch her before she fell on her ass. “Sugar, you all right?”
Morgan shook the other woman off and stood without the aid of the table. Barely. “I’m fine, just a little tired,” she lied.
Lexie gave her a skeptical look and told the nice folks at table nine, “She’ll be right back to take your order.” With an iron grip on her elbow, Morgan found herself whisked to the bathroom.
“What gives?” Morgan asked and rubbed the spot where she’d have a bruise.
In a flurry of bright red curls, Lexie walked the length of the bathroom. She checked under each stall to make sure they were alone. Apparently satisfied they were safe, the older waitress turned to her and put a hand on her hip. “How far along are you?”
“What?” Morgan asked and shuffled to the sink. She turned on the faucet and splashed water on her face.
It didn’t help the rolling nausea churning her empty stomach.
“Look,” Lexie said. “I know we aren’t friends, but it’s pretty obvious you ain’t got anyone looking out for you.”
Morgan blinked at Lexie. This was the longest conversation they’d had since Morgan’s first day a week ago.
“Does your boyfriend know you’re pregnant?”
Morgan stopped breathing. Just stopped. She slid to the floor and lay back on the cool tile before she fell. Her shields slipped. A sea of ghosts drifted above her, the noise of them a nice distraction.
“I’m not preg—” She couldn’t even say the word. Couldn’t think it.
Lexie walked over and crouched. “Honey, I’ve been pregnant seven times. Four of those stuck. I’ve been watching for the last week. You keep rubbing your back, sitting down on your breaks. Twice this week you ran into the bathroom like your panties were on fire. Today you fainted.”
No. No. No. Morgan closed her eyes. She was a necromancer. Bastian was a necromancer. Babies were rare; he’d said so himself. It took most couples decades to conceive, and even when they did, the risk of miscarriage was high. They couldn’t have… She couldn’t be… Her hand drifted over her flat stomach.
“You lay there for a minute. I’ll be right back,” Lexie ordered, and the door was already swinging shut after her.
“Sure. Whatever,” Morgan moaned, talking to no one in particular.
The bathroom door opened, and she didn’t even bother to lift her head. She could tell who it was from the squeak of her shoes. A little box dropped off her stomach and bounced to the floor. She picked it up and brought the pink package in front of her face.
A pregnancy test. She
cracked open her lids and eyed Lexie.
Lexie wrapped her long arms around her slender waist and shrugged. “I had an extra one in my locker from a while ago. It hasn’t expired yet.”
Morgan looked at the box again. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with it?”
“You pee on it,” Lexie whispered and shook her head. “Haven’t you ever taken one of these before?”
“God, no.”
Morgan got up, went into one of the stalls, and closed the door. She pulled down her pants, panties, and squatted. The tap, tap, tap of Lexie’s bouncing foot drowned out the sounds of the dead laughing at her.
“I can’t go with you standing there!” Morgan shouted.
A second later, the faucet streamed on. The sound of gushing water switched on her bladder. Finished, she dressed with one hand. She pinched the pink-and-white stick between two fingers and held it away from her like it was poisonous. Lexie jumped on her the second she emerged from the stall.
Paper towel in hand, Lexie grabbed the test and held it up to the light.
Morgan wrinkled her nose. “You know I peed on that, right?”
“Shut up. I’m trying to help.”
Morgan tucked her hands into her back pocket. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…I can’t be pregnant. Tell me I’m not pregnant.”
Lexie looked up, and her eyes were too bright. Tears swam in their green depths, and Morgan didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad one.
“Oh, honey!” Lexie exclaimed in excitement. “You’re pregnant.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I’ve had enough, you miserable piece of shit.” Rory’s booming voice carried over the slamming door.
The pounding in Bastian’s head appreciated the fact that the plush orange, brown, and maroon rugs decorating the upscale hotel suite did a great job muffling the thud of Rory’s boots. Seconds later, two looming shadows fell over the assortment of empty liquor bottles littering the coffee table and cluttering the floor.
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